


Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms

by Deeambles



Category: Naruto
Genre: Appreciation of the ass, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Valley of the End, honorable mentions: touka and Izuna, it's a fix-it dammit, shinobi violence, with smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 20:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19117132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeambles/pseuds/Deeambles
Summary: “Shut up.” He mumbles “I’ve never done any of what you accuse me. I only want—““What’s best?” Madara says sweetly, lifting his hips so Hashirama can remove the clothing trapped under and around him. “No, you’ve always taken what you want, and if anybody asks, you frame it as a gift for everyone. That they should be pleased. That you’re right and everybody else is wrong.”





	Don't follow me, you'll end up in my arms

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK by Joji

Hashirama is warm all over. The breeze tosses his hair has he watches Madara go through some basic stretches and Katas. He moves like a large cat, working through each movement with strength and a surprising amount of grace. 

Dancing, is what he calls it. 

Madara dances, and he can feel Hashirama watching. Eyes on his back, trailing over his body. They’ve always had this thing. Something Madara hasn’t pursued since he lost Izuna and then the battle. Something he doesn’t want to lose again but up until now has been too afraid to go after it.  

He’s selfish, and he wants Hashirama. He’s not sure why its only now that he’s feeling he confidence to carry out his desires, but here he is, finishing his stretches, and Hashirama hasn’t taken his eyes off him for one second.

Hashirama knows too, that he’s staring, but it’s almost like Madara is slowing down now, and he might be able to get away with it. It’s not like Madara has turned around yet anyways.

Good god that ass is a work of art, Hashirama ogles silently, does he even know that stretching out like that makes it look like that?

The village can’t have him, Madara decides, slowly rolling up from where he was in some mock downward dog pose, his brother can’t have him, that Uzumaki who came from Uzushio can’t have him.

Madara, though, all he has to do is add some hips to his walk. He comes from a clan that’s partially known for having regal looks. Seduction classes? Taught to everyone. Honeypot missions? Honestly only the Yamanka probably do more than the Uchiha.  

Determination set, he leans up and out of his last stretch, backside fully on display as he turns around and saunters on over to the Hokage sitting on the edge of the porch. 

That’s another thing. Hashirama as Hokage. He doesn’t mind as much, he supposes, as long as the big idiot doesn’t go giving away what’s theirs. He won’t be weak, he refuses. His clan is his, even if they are ungrateful. This village is theirs, and Hashirama is his, and Madara will show him. 

Show him what’s right, what’s wrong, and help him understand. Hashirama thinks their peace is the end, but really, it’s only the beginning. Soon, everyone can have it, everyone will know and understand but first, Hashirama needs to see it himself. 

He needs to see what they could become together if they just tried, Madara thinks, looming over the other man, a hand raising to cup Hashirama’s cheek.

Madara lets out a crooked smile, and Hashirama decides right then and there that whatever Madara says next, will be the end of him. He doesn’t think he could take it, whatever made Madara saunter on over and _smile_ , sage’s balls, he’s doomed.

“This is the beginning, Hokage-sama.” Madara says softly and Hashirama has no idea what drugs he accidently absorbed in the last five minutes, but he hopes he never comes down from his high, as long as Madara keeps smiling and talking to him like that. And, _maybe,_ he should be more concerned about what the hell he means, but when a shirtless man, with an ass sculpted by the gods comes up to you, you don’t turn him away.

Hashirama is occasionally a ditz, but he’s not _stupid_.  

* * *

 

“You can’t just give them what they want, Hashirama” Madara mumbles into his hair. 

Their laying in the bathtub together, moon shining through the window, lighting up the area where they were too lazy to light a candle.

“Compromise is important to any good relationship.” Hashirama responds, sinking further into Madara’s chest where he lays sprawled out on his front.  

Madara runs his hands through the others silky brown hair, which is even straight and tamable when wet, letting his hands linger on Hashirama’s lower back. 

They had been drinking. Left Tobirama’s house not too long ago. Hashirama said that was the only way to get his little brother to participate in getting drunk was if they did it in his house, and Madara promised he wouldn’t be a sourpuss. 

Mito and Touka’s presence helped a bit. Hashirama’s boisterous self, a little bit more. It helped that Tobirama had been quiet, all of them drunk anyways, _and_ they didn’t start any fights. Hashirama should be proud, considering the two of them destroyed a window and Hashirama’s desk not last week.

Madara understands compromise. 

“That’s not compromise, it’s weakness. You’re giving in before the fight even starts.” 

Hashirama sighs and Madara feels the heat where the other man is cradled on his chest, tucked in by his armpit. 

“The point is that we aren’t fighting. To make peace, is to accept conditions and refuse others. We are the superpower, Madara, we can afford to be nice as others build, lest they build against us.” 

“They will think us weak, Hashirama. They will not see it as you do. Even I can’t— you don’t understand these people.” Madara says sighing, trying to argue drunk is more taxing than he thought it would be. He doesn’t even remember how this topic of foreign nations got brought up.  “They will take advantage of your complicity. You need to seem stronger, inspire them, it’s be worshipped or feared, but you are not friends.” 

“I am worshipped” Hashirama mumbles, “am the god of shinobi” he says, words slurring as he sinks further into Madara and the bath. 

Madara breathes out sharply through his nose, a lost cause for tonight it seems, if Hashirama is flaunting that gaudy title around. They both must be a little more than drunk still, if Madara thought now would be a good time for Hashirama to understand anything. 

The mans like a sunflower, always pointing toward the sun. Madara’s like a morning glory, blooming in the moonlight. 

Next to Hashirama he thinks he can see the appeal that sunflowers have, even If he still needs to find a way that peace isn’t just asking the clans to move in together. It’s more, even if he hasn’t quite figured it out yet. It’s no need for weapons, its everyone’s loved ones being safe, it’s not having to share a room or cup of sake with a loved one’s ~~his brother’s~~ murderer.

Madara shakes off dark thoughts before shuffling the other man a bit, he’s not falling asleep in the tub, no matter Hashirama’s opinion on getting up, but the faster they can get into bed, the faster they can really go to sleep.  

* * *

 

“I won’t go speechless.” He gasps into Hashirama’s mouth. The other man bites back for every time Madara nips at his lip, and claws at his sides and chest, waking blood in his path. 

“I’ve never asked you too” Hashirama pants back, speaking directly into Madara’s mouth. His eyes clenching shut, as Madara grinds down on him some more. 

“No, never you, the great honorable God of Shinobi,” Madara mocks, “You would never suppress another. Never bend somebody till they break. Never—“ 

Hashirama cuts him off with a growl and flips them so he’s on top, yanking roughly at Madara’s clothes again.

“Shut up.” He mumbles “I’ve never done any of what you accuse me. I only want—“ 

“What’s best?” Madara says sweetly, lifting his hips so Hashirama can remove the clothing trapped under and around him. “ _No_ , you’ve always taken what you want, and if anybody asks, you frame it as a gift for everyone. That they should be pleased. That you’re right and everybody else is wrong.” 

Hashirama’s teeth grind as he reaches across to the nightstand to lube his fingers. Madara doesn’t stay idle either, reassuming his role of making Hashirama’s chest look like a war zone. Sneaking a hand down the others pants and stroking him, as if he isn’t fully hard already. 

Hashirama sucks a breath through his teeth and moves back fully between Madara’s thighs, swatting the others hand away. 

He looks down and sees a wild animal, hair thrown, blood on his nails and lips, bare for the world to see. 

He’s never thought of himself of a cage, or a ring leader with a whip, but if that’s what Madara wants, he’ll give him a time worthwhile. 

He slips a finger in, then two, and teases a third right off the start just to see Madara squirm. The other growls at him and lashes out, thighs wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer, but Hashirama holds his ground. 

“Don’t fight me, Madara, apparently, I’m the big bad Senju, come to ruin your life. You wouldn’t want to upset me, would you?” He mocks, trailing his free hand to push down on Madara’s collarbone. A silent warning, so close to his neck. 

Madara sneers, “And here I thought, you’d never admit it, you coward.” He bucks his hips as Hashirama shoves into his prostate in reprimand, “oh get on with it, will you?” Madara snaps

“That not very nice of you” Hashirama teases, dragging his fingers against Madara’s walls as he pulls out. He reaches for the lube again, taking his time to drip it on his cock, and rub it around a little before lining up to Madara’s hole. 

Madara himself is squirming and thrashing where he’s trapped under Hashirama’s firm hands and Hashirama wills some crawling vines from the headboard to better hold him down. Madara gets the message soon enough, sneering as he stills his hips and Hashirama slowly pushes in, aiming to directly push into the others prostate, just to see those dark eyes lose focus and flutter shut. 

Madara may hate Hashirama for all the things he’s got stuck in his head now, but he still knows him best. Still knows how to drive him wild and how to measure his thrusts to where Madara is no longer pushing against him, but working with him. How to make his eyes roll back into his head, and how turn the growls into moans. 

If he tries hard enough, he even knows how to make him beg.

Madara may have a point about his controlling nature, Hashirama muses, but it’s really just for him, because he asked. It doesn’t feel natural for Hashirama to take advantage of people, per say, he only wants to help and do best by everyone. He wants everyone to get along. Wants no more small graves, and really, is that such a hard request?

He wants Madara to see peace his way. He wants him to get those fantasy dreams out of his head and see things a little more realistically. They can’t possibly tame the whole world, but they can help their loved ones. More importantly, he wants him to know that he’s Hashirama’s Achilles heel and everything that means. If he asks right, Hashirama _would_ give him the world and nothing less. He’ll give them peace for an eternity and nothing more. 

He’ll do anything and the thought is frightening considering he knows what he’d do to stop himself from doing just that.

Madara snaps his hips down, grinding further on Hashirama’s cock, and he can’t help but lower his upper body down and press his mouth against Madara’s. Changing the angles, as they rock together and moan. The kisses are almost sweet if not for the lingering metallic taste of blood. 

Madara comes first, coating their stomachs and chests, and whining as Hashirama continues to work him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, chasing his own. He doesn’t let up, even after Madara starts clawing at him and moving against him, making it harder for Hashirama as he’s over stimulated, but this is what he wanted, Hashirama thinks through the cloud around his head. He grinds down hard, and Madara groans low and slowly becomes more pliant before twitching and clenching hard around Hashirama. 

It brings him over and he shouts a bit, biting down on Madara’s shoulder as he works himself through it, eyes shutting as he chases the sensation. 

When he comes back too, Madara has pushed him off and walked off to the bathroom if the sound of running water is any indication. 

Limped off, more likely, and Hashirama would have liked to see that. 

They’ll need to talk about it, he knows. Really talk, and with Madara that’s like wading through a pool of broken glass. Useless, in the endeavor, but he needs to know where these ideas came from, why Madara has lost all trust, why he won’t listen. 

He hopes they can figure it out together, that it won’t come to anything physical. Hashirama lets his hopes bring him down, washing his consciousness away like the running water in the bathroom. 

* * *

 

“You don’t understand” Madara hears himself say to a collapsed Hashirama. It’s almost through a muffler at this point. Repeated so many times, it’s lost his edge. 

“No, it’s you who’s never understood”, Hashirama corrects, all too calmly. 

Madara curses out loud because the other Hashirama was a fake, a wood clone, and that voice behind him was to close. 

Madara manages to turn all the way around before he feels a sword pierce through his chest. 

Hashirama is far too close. Nose to nose, lips inches apart and it takes all of Madara’s will power to look down, see the sword coming straight through his back and out his chest, and piercing right through Hashirama’s. 

“I told you, Madara, I don’t think you’ve ever understood.” 

And he’s right, because Madara’s never understood Hashirama. Doesn’t understand why he always tried to reach out to Madara. Why he preached peace after seeing everything they’ve seen. How he could love somebody who can’t even love himself. What lengths he was willing to go through to protect that failed experiment they called a village.

Madara has the sudden urge to yell more but the blade stuck through both of them by Hashirama’s hand has turned whatever high power in his brain that usually keeps functioning in high stress situations to mush. All he can think is that Hashirama is about to die with him, and that’s everything he’s ever wanted, because Hashirama is his.

It surprises them both when the next thing out of Madara’s mouth is, “Stop. Heal yourself, you idiot.” Its nary a whisper, spoken softly into Hashirama’s lips. His hands are gripping what’s left of the other man’s armor in an attempt to just stay upright, and it’s the sudden realization that he doesn’t want Hashirama to die at all, that nearly sends Madara into hysterics. The thought terrifies him and he has no idea of how to fix it.

“Sorry, Madara, but you should have realized by now that I’m selfish.” Hashirama whispers back. Like a lover’s caress, something they were once. Something Madara wishes he could cut out of his life and replace with _anything_ but this. Anything but Hashirama killing them both instead of just him. 

“You idiot, don’t do this, it should just be me.” Madara starts, but he realizes his mistake as Hashirama just smiles at him, blood starting to drip from the corner of his mouth. So Madara tries something else, something that’s always connected them. 

“Hashirama, your brother—Tobirama— what about your last little brother. You can’t leave him.” He whines desperately. Madara means it. The thought of if their positions were reversed makes him want to puke. He would never leave Izuna alone, would die protecting him if he could but never leave him without a word of goodbye. 

And maybe the inner clan head in him is scared Tobirama won’t understand his family. That he’ll make the wrong assumptions from the misinformation that Madara always fed him to piss him off. That not speaking and really telling Tobirama, or anyone, how to help his family, how to deal with the curse of hatred, will bite him in the ass. 

“My little brother will be fine Madara. He has support, he has Konoha, and I have you. I’m too selfish to live a world without you.” Hashirama says, eyes fogging like the mist around them. 

“Hashirama” Madara says weakly, “Please, don’t” 

He might be crying, he might be scared, but neither feelings are for himself. They’re for the boy on the mountain top declaring not another child will live through the wars they have. It’s a boy on the riverside, challenging him to skipping rocks. It’s the Hokage he saw through the leaves and the village they built and sewed together from nothing more than discarded traditions and spite. 

It’s Hashirama, and Madara can’t dare to watch him die from up close, even if they are dying together. The love he has for him his like trying to hug someone underwater. Pressure is infinite, but when you’re hooked and pulled close to somebody, it cancels out the weight you gain. It’s like watching the bubbles float past and hoping to catch them. Like opening your eyes only to see the blurriness of the area around you from the retina not understanding what it’s looking at. The pressure of somebody’s lips on your forehead, and arms around your waist, like the pressure of tons of water isn’t down and around and so very suffocating in its property. That it isn’t the single reason life thrives and yet shrivels at the same time. 

Madara can’t handle it. So he won’t. 

He closes his eyes and wraps an arm around Hashirama’s neck, another coming up to cradle his face. He feels his way and leans in to kiss the shit out of the only man he’s ever loved so intimately. 

Hashirama responds, leaning in, even though it causes both of them to grimace and flinch at the pain, as Hashirama settles the sword with one hand. He grips the back of Madara head with the other, and deepens the kiss to something more sensual, and sad, and so full of apologies that Madara might drown in it. Drown in the love that Hashirama admits so easily, that’s always been solely aimed at him and he never wished to open his eyes and see. 

It tastes of blood, and Madara’s never wanted this, Hashirama’s death, despite everything he’s screamed before. Everything time he tried to kill him, he just—

He doesn’t know why he forgot. Doesn’t know why he’s only now missing waking up next to this man, and drinking sake with him, or making out in the bath tub. 

He just wants him to live. Live out his days happy, and not be burdened with Madara’s problems. 

Somewhere between his heavy thoughts and his and Hashirama’s decent to their knees, where they balance each other out in the water, he forgets about Izangi. Forgets about Zetsu and the tablet. Forgets why he hates this man so much he wanted to kill him. Forgets his guilt and forgets why it isn’t okay to die here in Hashirama’s arms in a valley they made together. Born of their skills, and power and carved out in the shape of their love. 

He forgets. 

And then everything goes dark. 

* * *

Mito watches the two biggest idiots she knows collapse on each other before sighing and turning to look toward the nine-tail fox. Previously filled with rage, and venom at being held hostage and used for Madara’s will.  

Now it watches the scene below with something like disgust. 

“Humans” It mumbles. Before shaking its head and correcting itself, “Sages sons, Indra and Ashura. The most dramatic of them all.” 

It swishes its tails decisively before turning towards Mito, “Uzumaki” it acknowledges, before gathering itself up and bounding away. A single leap has brought it out of her range, a continent away. 

She tucks the scroll she had been planning on testing a little tighter into her pocket. A scroll with a seal strong enough to seal a bijuu. 

One she’s going to make forbidden, or possibly burn after making a couple counters to it. 

She hadn’t expected such emotion, or really it to be sentient, and it erks her that she almost sealed something in herself that’s clearly aware in the same way most animals with high amounts of chakra are. 

Shaking herself out of her stupor, she watches below as Tobirama works to stabilize Hashirama and Madara before they bleed out or more pressingly, their hearts stop. 

Tobirama has full on yanked the sword out, and shoved a chakra storage tag onto his brother, clearly counting on Hashirama’s regeneration ability to save himself. Madara’s condition is Tobirama’s concern after seeing what lengths his brother is really willing to go for the Uchiha. 

Mito works her way down the cliff. They aren’t too late, she knows, but not being mad at Hashirama for his selfishness, or Madara for his obliviousness, or hell, even Tobirama for his inability to rid himself of Hashirama’s orbit, is harder than she’d like to admit. 

It’s selfish of her, she supposes, but when you love someone as straight forward and blunt as Senju Touka, the confusing twisted love that is Hashirama and Madara is headache inducing to the largest extreme. 

And don’t even get her started on the genius that is Tobirama. She’s never been do rude to ask if the brother that he killed, he loved as well, but she truly doesn’t need to with that way he flinches at any mention, vague or not, of Uchiha Izuna. The way he had once drunkenly slurred he “had thought he’d dodge” before passing out without explanation. The way he shuts down, and looks not guilty, but sad. 

An important difference, and very hard one to tell with Tobirama’s stern features. 

Reaching the bottom of the ravine, she pulls the tags from her hair placing one on each of them for stasis and healing before nodding to Tobirama. 

They each pick up one, and head back toward the village at the fastest pace possible. With any luck, they can figure out a happy ending to all this, should the Sage’s will allow it. 

With any luck, she can even be back in bed with her wife by midday tomorrow. 

* * *

 

Madara wakes to the smell of antiseptic and the deep breathing of someone else nearby 

He rolls his head to the side and squints an eye open to see Hashirama laying in a hospital bed passed out. 

He’ll have to give his congrats to the medic(s) that saved them, Hashirama really was trying for death. 

He doesn’t know if that’s really what he wants for himself, but he does know it’s not what he wants for Hashirama. He wonders if Hashirama will take him back, still want to wake up with him. Wonders if he’ll throw him in a cell to appease the other clan heads, like he’s sure they all want. 

He’s not chained to the bed, and there’s no chakra suppressing seals, which means either Tobirama doesn’t know they are here, _unlikely_ , or he’s deemed him a non-threat. 

Or maybe he’s simply stop caring if Madara kills Hashirama or not. 

Izuna would have done something as spiteful as that if Madara tried to kill himself and Hashirama both. 

Little brothers, Madara mentally scoffs, watching as Hashirama slowly comes too. 

Hashirama opens his eyes groggily, blinking away the stiffness of his limbs and the drowsiness of chakra exhaustion. Madara is in a bed a couple feet away, staring at him with one eye barely squinted open. 

Somebody saved them, Hashirama thinks, someone saved  _both_  of them. There’s some thought of disbelief, but one glance down to a chakra storage tag across his chest, let’s him know exactly how that particular miracle happen.

He really owes his brother a thank you and a very large apology it seems.  

He smiles at Madara, and watches a small one grace Madara’s face as well 

They’ve got a lot to talk about, but this time Hashirama thinks they both will be more willing to listen. 

 

Mito slams into the recovery room, causing both patients to jump, wide eyed as she takes a chair, sitting between the two beds, with the most menacing face she can come up with. 

“They’re calling it the valley of the end, in case you’re wondering.” Mito starts sharply, “Now go on, you’re both awake, start talking. Clearly the two of you can’t be trusted to work out your feelings on your own, sage help us all.”

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Hashirama to realize she’s essentially playing marriage counselor and once glance at Madara’s face, scrunched up like he just ate something sour, has him busting out laughing. The thought of Madara talking about feelings in front of anybody has him laughing harder than he has in years.

It’ll be okay, Hashirama thinks, wiping away the tears, watching Madara turn over in his bed to block out the two of them,

They’ll get their happy ending, soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> tobirama takes one look at hashiramas self sacrificing streak and says not today satan. 
> 
> also sad izutobi implications :( 
> 
> ***** also i played around with perspectives in this fic (after reading a fic where the author did it flawlessly) so if they come off wonky im so sorry but Madara and Hashirama are literally hot messes and so is the author.


End file.
